My Blood Approves
by LadyLazarus9
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter does not live happily ever after. When tragedy strikes too close to his heart, he is inconsolable. 12 years later, living a dangerous life in the Muggle world, he encounters someone from his past, and a mysterious package arrives with one thing inside: the Resurrection Stone. His days in hiding are up. HPxOC drama/romance/friendship/angst
1. the deepest secret nobody knows

**Hi! This fanfic's one I've been stewing over for a while. It's part post-war, part AU, focusing on the relationship of my OC Tate with Harry. It'll switch between flashbacks (indicated by italics) and present tense which shall be told by Harry's first person POV. The story title and chapter titles refer to phrases from poems by e.e. cummings. Hope you enjoy!**

**Also note: I'm American, so if I get British terminology wrong, pardon. Corrections (on that and anything else) are always welcome!**

**Banner art belongs to ansimone**

**Harry Potter (c) JK Rowling/ Warner Bros. Not me.**

* * *

**I. "the deepest secret nobody knows" **

_She first saw him, a bird-thin little boy with black hair and makeshift glasses, drowning in oversized clothing, when he hit the other boy in the mouth. _

_She was plucking dandelions that grew along the chain link fence ringing the primary school's grounds. It was spring, and she crouched in the mud, pretending to focus on the bouquet she was forming, when actually she was watching the other children play. She liked to watch them clamber over the jungle gym, whirling like dervishes on the merry-go-round, shrieking as they soar higher and higher on the swings. _

_She watched them because she couldn't join them. She didn't go to school, and any child the teachers on recess duty didn't recognize would be tattled on. She had tried playing with them before, but they only looked at her, thinking her strange with her dark eyes that seldom blinked and the wild, deep red hair that fell straight as a pin to her waist, and then they would call for the teacher._

_So instead she watched. It was almost as fun; she liked watching things because you could learn just as much and imagine you were there, only you weren't humiliated. _

_She was watching when the smallest of the boys, a wriggling toothpick of a boy with messy, poorly cut black hair, was pushed to the ground by a bigger boy. This fellow was not so much tall, but round. She imagined there would be a lot of him to look at from the small boy's perspective, on the ground looking up. The fat boy was winged by several other, bigger boys, all of them with unpleasant expressions._

_She had developed an ability to understand what people were saying by watching their mouths as they spoke. She didn't need to actually hear them._

"Quit following us, Potter," _sneered the fat boy. He liked saying the name; she could tell by his face he said it like a dirty word._

_She couldn't see the little boy's face, but she assumed he tried to deny ever doing such a thing._

"You trail after us like an ugly dog. Nobody wants to be friends with an ugly, stinky orphan like you. That's why you have to live with me. Your parents didn't even want you; they hated you so much they left you and ran away and then died!"

_The fat boy and his friends found this very funny, though she suspected they didn't really understand what they were talking about. She wasn't pretending to pick flowers anymore. She was pressed against the fence, her pale fingers curled around the links as she watched, transfixed._

_The little boy struck fast as a snake. His small fist was quivering with energy, and he hit the boy across the face. He didn't do any damage. She surmised the fat boy had too much padding on his face and not enough teeth in his mouth to cause bleeding. But he was stunned._

_And realizing his mistake, the black haired boy took off running quite fast. The gang of boys followed, and for all their longer legs and larger size, they couldn't keep up with the littler boy. He ran to a gap in the fence and managed to squeeze through, only possible because of his size, and disappeared behind the school building. _

_The fat boy and his friends tried to follow, but there was no getting through that gap with their sizes. She watched them turn instead to the teacher, and then she threw down her dandelions and followed the black haired boy, brimming with curiosity._

_She found him behind a rubbish bin, his eyes blinking wildly behind the warped glass of his spectacles. When he saw her, he started but he didn't bolt._

_"Hello," she said._

_He hesitated. "Hello," he replied._

_"You don't have to hide," she said. "They aren't following you anymore."_

_He didn't looked convinced. "How d'you know?"_

_"I was watching from the fence," she explained. "They couldn't get through the gap. Why did you hit him?"_

_The boy wriggled out from behind the bin. His T-shirt was so large he had it bound around his waist with a piece of twine, but still it was falling off his skinny shoulder. His shorts were nearly wide-legged trousers, and his trainers were much to large for his feet, it was a wonder he could run so fast in them._

_"I don't know," he said. "I'm in enough trouble already. Not that I ever have to do anything to be in trouble, but last week I turned—" but he stopped dead, his eyes wide._

_"Turned what?" she asked, coming closer. She hefted herself up onto the bin, swinging her bare legs idly. When he paused, she said, "It's alright, I'm your friend."_

_"Friend?" he asked, almost as if he didn't know the meaning of the word. _

_"Yes, silly. Now, what did you do?"_

_"I turned the teacher's wig blue!" he said in a rush. Then he looked to her for a reaction._

_She was grinning. "Wicked. I've never done that. I'm not sure if I could handle blue just yet."_

_He gawped at her. "You—you mean you can—"_

_"I can do some stuff. But I'm young and I'm still practicing. What about you?"_

_He shook his head incredulously. "I'm not allowed to try. It—it just happens when I'm upset."_

_"Want to see something cool?"_

_If a child usually said this, they meant something rather mediocre, like a frog or a cartwheel. But she meant something rather different, and she knew he knew it._

_She closed her eyes and thought feather wings, thought birds soaring, thought children swinging and flying through the air, and the next thing she was floating into the air to touch on the roof of the school. She turned and sat on the edge, grinning. "I love doing that," she said._

_"Who are you?" asked the boy in a voice of wonder._

_"My name's Tatiana, but my dad calls me Tate. What's your name."_

_"I'm Harry," he said. "Harry Potter."_

_"Well, come on, Harry Potter," said Tate. "If you can turn a wig blue you can certainly get up here."_

_The boy screwed up his face, and it took a minute, but when he opened them he was sitting next to the girl with the long crimson hair. _

_She smiled at him, and he smiled back. _

_"D'you go to school here?" he asked._

_"No. I don't go to school."_

_"Not at all?"_

_"No. My dad says I don't need to. He says I'll learn what I need to on my own."_

_"You're lucky. Where do you live? Near Privet Drive?" He said this in a hopeful tone._

_She shook her head, and his face fell. "I live in London, on Charleston Street. But only in the summer."_

_"How did you get to Little Whinging?"_

_"I like riding trains and buses."_

_"Don't you have to pay?"_

_She grinned at him. "They don't see me if I don't want them to. Where do you live?"_

_"Privet Drive. With my aunt and uncle."_

_"And that fat boy."_

_"He's my cousin, Dudley."_

_She laughed at the name. "He's horrid. Is it true you're an orphan?"_

_He blinked. "Yes," he whispered._

_She put an arm around his shoulder. "There's worse things to be."_

_"Like what?"_

_"Like Dudley!"_

_They both laughed. Just then, voices could be hear around the corner of the building. _

_"He went this way, Ms. Skiffins!"_

_"He hit Dudley right on the face!"_

_She turned to Harry. "I have to go; if they find me, they'll telephone my father." In a blink she was on the ground. She turned to leave but then doubled back._

_"I'll come back and find you," she said with a grin. "I promise. Bye!" And she bolted into the trees and was gone._

_"Tate!" called the boy, but it was too late. Several faces peered up at him, both triumphant and flummoxed. _

_"Harry Potter! Come down from there at once! When your aunt hears about this…"_

_Tate watched from the trees as Harry Potter refused—or was unable—to come down. She grinned. She'd made a friend, someone like her. She memorized everything about him and everything he said and then she left._

_It was not the last time she saw Harry Potter._

_Not in the least._

* * *

Used: "i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)" by e.e. cummings


	2. small as a world, as large as alone

**Thanks to everyone who's viewed and read so far! You're awesome.**

**NOTE: I've taken liberties, but that's the point of fanfiction, right? I suppose you could say this story is AU, depending on how you look at it.**

**Also note: I'm American, so if I get British terminology wrong, pardon. Corrections (on that and anything else) are always welcome!**

**Banner art belongs to ansimone**

**Harry Potter (c) JK Rowling/ Warner Bros. Not me.**

* * *

**II. "as small as a world and as large as alone"**

"as small as a world and as large as alone

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)

it's always ourselves we find in the sea"

-e.e. cummings

_Harry_

Everything I touch dies.

It's been twelve years, and I look back and see only pain. Pain I caused, mistakes I made.

It doesn't feel like we won, not at all. It feels like we lost. There is none of the triumphant exhilaration, none of the glorious hope you would expect. For a time, I could bring myself to see a brighter future, but now I understand how mistaken I was. How naively hopeful.

It wasn't always like that. At first it was better. It's only become this painful with time, which is odd. Isn't time supposed to heal? Where is _my_ healing? Why can't I forget?

This is what happened after:

The days after the Battle, we were all ecstatic, high on triumph and relief. Voldemort was dead, his followers were disbanded and fleeing, and we had finally come out of the dark. I remember Ron and Hermione and I during those days; we'd sit under the tree at the edge of the lake, occasionally looking at each other but saying nothing. We didn't have to speak, we knew what the others were thinking.

_It's over._

But it wasn't. There were funerals, lots of them. Remus and Tonks. Dennis Creevy. Ted Tonks. Lavender Brown. Fred. It's a physical ache in my chest these days, to think of them; back then it was electric agony. There were so many funerals, and I was expected to attend them all. I wore black robes for weeks, I cried more tears than could be counted. Ron and Hermione, I think, could see it was damaging me slowly, attending these services for people I felt personally responsible for. My "saving people thing," my "guilt complex" I once heard Hermione call it. It was cancer, mold, disease eating me from inside.

There were highlights, bright beams of light illuminating the darkness: the celebration at the school, and all magical people were invited—there were lots of tears and hugs, there was food and fireworks, and there was no talk of mudbloods and purebloods, or halfbreeds; walking in (again) on Ron and Hermione kissing, and the embarrassed but blissfully happy looks on their faces; the day Kingsley Shacklebolt was named acting Minister of Magic; waking up to Ginny, her freckles flecks of gold and her eyes wickedly bright, and I knew then in that moment I would gladly go to my ruin following that woman.

It was all so much, the sadness and the jubilation together, that Ron and Hermione and I had to get away. With our Undesirable statuses lifted, we raided my Gringotts vault and traveled to Australia, to find Hermione's parents and try to explain to them something of what happened. Luckily, Hermione wasn't as thorough in her memory charm as she thought, because the Grangers had not been able to forget her face—they couldn't place her identity, but neither truly forgot her, and they were more than happy to try to remember. The healers at the magical hospital in Sydney called this a "memory window" and because of it were able to restore their memories.

After Australia, we traveled the world for a few weeks. New York, Hong Kong, Istanbul, Madrid. Hermione took us to France where we met up with Fleur's family, and Ron gave us a tour of Egypt. There were lots of photos taken, most of them silly, and we luxuriated in beds and hot baths and prepared meals. But we were all sick for home, and so back to the Burrow we went.

Because of the year spent under the rule of Voldemort, Hogwarts—completely repaired and renovated during the summer following the battle—was requiring all students to recomplete that year. We took the opportunity to finish school; they let us back without a problem. We completed our N.E.W.T.s, and while it was hard noticing some people were absent, the rest of us bonded together as never before. With the exception of (some but not all of) the Slytherins, the seventh years didn't seem to have separate houses. Slytherin won the house cup that year, but no one cared. It didn't seem to matter anymore.

I'll say one thing for publicity: there's no need for a CV. Hermione, Ron and I were pelted with job offers after graduation from Hogwarts. It had been our intention once to all be Aurors, but things change. Ron was offered a position as an assistant to the new Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports; he got free tickets to any Quidditch match and often got some for me. Hermione was swept off her feet by a five-year internship to Madame Griselda Marshbanks, who was reinstated to the Wizengamot (the internship later led to a career as a Representative for the Defense; I often tease her for becoming a lawyer, but she is fantastic at it). Her side project for years now has been legislation about workforce and public discrimination against magical creatures.

And me? Kingsley asked me to enter the Auror program. I trained under Gawain Robards; it was everything I'd hoped it would be and more. After two years of basic training I became a junior partner, and then a senior a year after that. I still think of Mad-Eye and Tonks when I wear my badge.

Ron and Hermione didn't wait much to marry; they were wed in August after we graduated, at the Burrow, naturally. It's become a sort of tradition; George and Angelia married there, too. I was worried at first that I'd lost my best friends to each other, because it was as if they had put a permanent sticking charm on each other after the wedding. There was a time, between their honeymoon and their two month anniversary that I was concerned about my social life, but they promptly got back to arguing and things were just about as normal as they could be with us.

Ginny and I waited longer. Four years, in fact. I wanted to have a solid job before marrying, she of course had to finish school, and then she went into business with Luna, who took over Olivander's shop when he retired. Ginny handled the paperwork and such, letting Luna cluck over wand lengths and mutter about nargles. She also helped George with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes occasionally. We quarreled often, about dates and guests, and sometimes if there should be a wedding at all, but in the end we eloped to the Burrow. It was a private affair, strictly family, and the happiest day of my life to date.

We moved to a small house in Wells and flooed constantly to work and the Burrow on weekends and Ron and Hermione's to babysit when they needed us to. Those days we were so busy I nearly forgot everything bad in my life. Ginny was amazing at understanding my sadness when it took over some days. She was an amazing comfort, a balm to a wound I felt would never heal. Those days I believed the worst was behind me.

I can't remember when she told me she was pregnant, only the intense anxiety and excitement that hit me at the same time. I remember setting the crib up by hand because it got botched if set up by magic. I remember watching her belly grow with each week, and feeling the first kicks of the baby I was certain was a boy, but she was certain it was a girl. I remember talking names: James Sirius Frederick, or Lily Luna Nymphadora. It was as if we wanted to attach the names of everyone we'd ever loved or lost to the baby in the hopes that they'd live through our child.

We didn't know Ginny was carrying twins. If we had, something might have been done. We'd've gone to St. Mungo's for check ups sooner, or prepared a midwife sooner. Instead, Ginny started having contractions two months early, while I was on assignment. Something went horribly wrong—there was a puddle of blood on the kitchen floor—and she said she fainted before she could contact her mother or me, and when I got home that evening, she was in great pain.

The midwife explained it to me, but I wasn't really listening. And who would blame me. They were too early, the umbilical cords tangled around them both in a fatal net. When they were finally out, they weren't breathing, and they never started, my son and daughter. And Ginny—I've never heard such a sound. They think it was partly what the traumatic labor did to her insides, partly the difficult afterbirth, and partly heartbreak. But I held her hand and cried silently because I thought she'd fallen asleep—she was so tired. I didn't realize something was wrong until I moved to take my hand from hers to speak to Molly and Arthur and her fingers stayed curved.

She died quietly, and I did nothing to stop it.

After that I was ready to let my life crumble, but Hermione and Ron wouldn't allow it. They nearly lived at my house during the weeks following, Hermione cooking meals and Ron helping organizing the funeral. We were all distraught, but I maintain that it was different for me.

Ginny's death was proof—if I hadn't seen the proof before—that I was poisonous. So many of the people I loved were dead, and I began to think if I'd been cursed. It was no longer a matter of what I could have done to stop it; it was a matter of stopping future deaths. It was about keeping Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys safe, giving them some matter of years without a funeral.

My solution came to me in the form of work. It was Kingsley's idea: because of so many magical events attracting the attention of Muggles, he was concerned about magical secrecy. More and more crimes investigated by the Muggle police were connected to the magical world, and before long, someone might discover us.

I went to Robards as soon as I heard. He was confident I'd be a good choice for the assignment, but he was somewhat concerned.

"You understand, Harry," he said, "this isn't just an undercover assignment, this is deep cover. You'll have a new name, a new address, new parents and history. You'll have know Muggle technology, Muggle phrases, bands, television programs, politics. You'll have to train to be one of them, work your way up their ranks. This is long term. And you can't tell your…family or friends. You may not be home for holidays, and you might not see many of them for a long time. Do you understand?"

"I understand, sir," I said immediately in the hollow tone I'd adopted for general conversation. "And I would like to request that you consider me for this assignment."

He surveyed me for a moment and then said, "I don't need much consideration. You're the best we have and maybe the best we'll ever get. I was going to ask you anyway. Here," he tossed a badge onto his desk between us, a challenge. I took it, gazing at the name: _Harry James, Detective Inspector_. "Welcome to New Scotland Yard."


	3. ten thousand stars

**Gosh, thanks for everyone who faved and followed! This is only my second fic, so I'm easily impressed, but to Sura88, geetac, princess1194, voceycurt, Amulet Mermaid, Benevolent Abyss, Tom Kristal, anggelica2018, mliyanagamage, and shlakvuck, THANKS SO MUCH! It really does mean a lot to me. **

**Reviews or comments of any sort would be appreciated. If you read, tell me what you think! :)**

**Banner art belongs to ansimone **

**Harry Potter (c) JK Rowling/ Warner Bros.**

* * *

"I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing

than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance"

― E.E. Cummings

III. ten thousand stars

_Tate came back._

_She promised she would, but when she met him again, she could tell he had not believed her. He had given her enough information for her to find him; Privet Drive was one of many suburban streets in Little Whinging, which had its own Tube station. She didn't mind walking from there—she liked seeing new places._

_Admittedly, Little Whinging was not one of the more interesting places she'd visited. There were rows and rows of brick-like houses, all of them an unpleasant brown. She came across few parks and fewer trees, which she believed to be essential. People gave her strange looks as they passed by or washed their cars in front of the garage. She was used to strange looks; she didn't much mind, but she had an idea that people who lived here were ordinary. She did not think it a bad thing, only a dull thing. They were not like her._

_Not like Harry Potter._

_When finally she came to Privet Drive, her heart rose like a balloon in her chest. She'd never had a friend who was like her, not one her own age. Her father was like her, and he often took her places and she often met others who could do the things she could, but never a child. Never someone who could be her friend._

_She did not know which house he lived in. This was a problem she had not foreseen. She walked down the pavement, running a stick she'd picked up along the fence as she passed, watching._

_She had walked down the drive and back when she spotted the Fat Boy piling into a shiny black car, the kind that was owned to impress people and was often waxed and shown off. A tall, very thin woman with a sharp face clicked across the pavement in pointed pumps and sat in the passenger's seat. That's when she spotted Harry; he was little more than a bespectacled shadow in the doorframe, because taking up most of the room on the front steps was a huge, walrus-like man with a ruddy complexion, and he was threatening Harry._

_She slipped into invisibility and crept nearer to hear._

_"…you're to do your chores—all the cleaning and the laundry, and if they aren't finished when we come back this afternoon, your backside will smart for it, understand? You listen well, Potter, because if anything is out of line one hair, one tiny bloody hair, you will wish you'd never been born! Now get in there!"_

_The Fat Man—though Tate thought this was a colossal understatement of a nickname—shoved Harry back in the house, locked the door from the inside and out, and proceeded to shove himself into the small black car, the likes of which had clearly not been built for anyone weighing over 300 pounds. The car—and the horrid people inside—pulled away from the house and was gone. _

_What luck. They were gone! With one fluid moment she launched herself over the fence, landing on the damp lawn on the other side. She slid her feet out of her trainers, peeled off her socks, and tiptoed into the flowerbed, mud rising between her toes as she peered through the window._

_Harry Potter was sitting in front of the television. He had it turned down so that you could barely hear it, but he was sitting on the sofa eating biscuits like he was starving—which he might've been. He looked so pleased to be free of those people, he didn't mind that the biscuits were somewhat stale or that it was turned to the political channel._

_She tapped on the window lightly. Inside, he jumped, looking around. He looked frightened, and he looked right at her but didn't seem to see her. She giggled; she'd forgotten she was invisible. She let the invisibility slide off her like water. When he saw her, his eyes went round like coins. He went to the window, yanking on the release, but it was locked._

_"The door's locked, too," he said, his voice muffled and horribly disappointed, but Tate grinned and gestured for him to wait._

_It was simple, really. She'd figured out how to sort out simplistic locks years ago, and if they were too difficult for her magic to handle, she could pick them with hairpins or toothpicks. She placed her hand on the lock, concentrated. Ah. Nothing she couldn't manage. With a little effort, she heard the tumblers click and turn, and when she turned the handle, the door swung open._

* * *

_She took him to the general store where she bought them fish and chips and lukewarm Coca-Colas. They went to one of the parks she'd passed; it was nearly empty, and they ate in the sun, using the merry-go-round as their seats and table._

_"How old are you?" he asked._

_"Ten. You?"_

_"I'm nine. I'll be ten in July."_

_"My birthday's in November."_

_"Where'd'you get your money?" asked Harry._

_"My dad," she replied. "He gives me whatever I want."_

_"Like Dudley," said Harry a little dryly. "Anything he wants, he gets. And if he doesn't get it, he'll pitch a tantrum."_

_"It's not like that with me and Dad," Tate said, shrugging. "For one thing, I don't ask for much. He doesn't either. And I hardly ever see him. Sometimes it can be months without seeing him. He tries to make sure I have everything I need."_

_"Who takes care of you? D'you have a mum?"_

_She shook her head. "No. Well, I suppose I do. I mean, she doesn't live with us. She sends me letters every week, from all over the world. I don't really understand it, but she can't be with me. I have a nanny who tries to take care of me, but she really just makes my meals and does my laundry."_

_"Kind of like me," Harry said quietly. _

_She looked at him. "We're a lot like each other." Then she straightened. "So what do you want to do? D'you want to go into the city? We could go to a cinema, or to the zoo!"_

_He looked unsure. "I dunno…I have to clean the house and do the washing. And if I'm not back there when the Dursleys come back—" He shuddered at the thought._

_"No problem," she said with a wave of her hand. "We can get all that done before they're back, no sweat."_

_"Really?"_

_She raised an eyebrow. "You need to learn this: with magic, you can do _anything_."_

* * *

_She met him nearly every day, every week at least. Sometimes she was with him at the Dursley's house, invisible. She'd tug on his shirt or pinch him to tell him she was there. She'd trip Dudley and cause Uncle Vernon to spill his food on himself, and Harry would laugh quietly._

_When he was cooped up in his cupboard for punishments, she would sneak him food and games, occasionally stay in there with him. When the Dursleys left him on his own they would go exploring, taking buses around the city to museums and parks. And they would do magic. Tate was far better, and Harry was shy and unsure, but it felt good to do it without getting in trouble. _

_They spent two years like this, in secret friendship. Before the second year, Tate told Harry some bad news._

_"I'll be gone in September, Harry."_

_"Where are you going? Somewhere with your dad?"_

_She shook her head. "Not this time. I'm being send to school. I'll be back for holidays and next summer. Will you be all right without me?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Okay."_

_"Tate?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"I'm going to miss you."_

_"I'll miss you, too."_

* * *

_"I don't understand it, Tate," he said almost furiously. Tate raised her sunglasses, looking up at him as he propped himself up on an elbow. They were in Hyde Park, stealing a few hours of peace and quiet in the late July sun; the Dursleys were out visiting Smeltings Academy, where Dudley would be going in the fall, but they would be back soon._

_"Don't understand what?"_

_"This…this magic! Why do we have it? What do we DO with it? How do we handle it, practice it? I mean—that thing with the snake and the glass at the museum, that was scary, Tate!"_

_"Yeah, scary funny," she said. "Little fat wanker."_

_"Tate, I'm serious! I'm—I'm going mad!"_

_"No, you're not."_

_"YES, I—"_

_She let out a loud sigh and sat up, turning to him. He couldn't see her black eyes through the dark sunglasses. Her crimson hair was longer than ever, plaited in two rope-like braids that brushed her middle. "Harry, listen to me. I'm very serious at this moment, and I need you to trust me, like you'd trust an adult or—your parents. Your magic is real, and you aren't going mad. And you won't hurt anyone or do anything wrong with it. And soon—VERY soon—something's going to happen and EVERYTHING, all of your questions will be answered. Okay?"_

_He set his jaw determinedly. "Okay."_

_She grinned. "Okay." She sprawled out across the prickly grass again. "Doing anything for your birthday?"_

_"No."_

_"It's a big one. Eleven. I have a feeling something huge is going to happen."_

_"Really?"_

_"Yeah. Really."_

* * *

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	4. universe next door

**Thanks to ****Jordan Cross**** and ****anggelica2018**** for the reviews! And also to ****SevenBlackRoses and TheLoneCenturion**** who followed, ****Kurama's Chosen Sage96**** who favorited, and ****anthonyho992**** who did both! Support is soooo wonderful, guys, I can't even tell you. :)**

**Kay, so, I'm not British and all info mentioned on New Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan police comes from a) wikipedia and b) my English penpal, so if there are major screw-ups, do let me know!**

**Suggestions? Comments? Corrections? Questions? Give a review! :D**

**~Laz**

**Banner art belongs to ansimone**

**Harry Potter (c) JK Rowling/ Warner Bros**

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**IV. universe next door**

"Listen; there's a hell of a good universe

next door: let's go"

-e. e. cummings

_Harry_

"What a morning, eh?"

I sigh; my hands in the air and a coffee stain on my white shirt (not to mention the blistering burn forming underneath), I am not quite as grateful in this moment as I usually am that my partner is the department wisecrack.

"You could say that," I reply, staring at the gun pointed at us.

"Shut it, wankers!" shouts the holder of the gun. He's a young man, probably no older than twenty, with hand tremors that make me anxious. Even if he's not serious about pulling the trigger and he's only trying to scare up some cash, he might do it on accident.

The Starbucks barista crouched behind the register whimpers. I glance back at her.

"You all right?" I ask.

She's a pretty girl, really young, and she wears too much makeup to be attractive. In response, she looks to the telephone, above her next to the till, a silent question. I shake my head fractionally; instead I look to her pocket where a tell-tale bulge indicates a camera phone. I widen my eyes for effect.

"Listen, mate," says Boo, who frequently makes the mistake of opening his mouth during crises, "we don't want any trouble, but you've spilt a tall cappuccino on my friend here, who has had a long night and he basically mainlines caffeine, so I can't guarantee your safety."

"I said shut it!" The tremors are worsening with the stress, and I stifle a groan. "I want your wallet." The boy points the gun more specifically at me and my eyes roll involuntarily. Of course, it has to be me.

My partner in this gallant battle against crime, Philip Dean Finch—also known as Boo, alluding to his effect on the general population—grins at me. He has this weird look on his face when he looks at me, like he knows exactly what I'm thinking; but then, I've never been very good at hiding my emotions.

"You really don't," says Boo. "All's that in there are some coins and every receipt from Starbucks from the last five months—"

The gun is back to Boo, and I have to agree this time. "Quiet, you!"

"Yeah," I say, "quiet, you."

Boo looks as innocent as a child. "Who, me?" he deadpans. "Listen, friend, I've got some advice—"

"Not now, you sodding git," I hiss. I jerk my head fractionally back to the barista, who is trying to dial surreptitiously. Boo looks, never having been that great at covert affairs, and so does the boy with the gun. He is either not bright—a plausible conjecture, really—or his withdrawal symptoms are affecting his vision, because it takes him a few moments to register the camera phone.

"Hey!" And the gun is pointed at the barista, who screams. The boy advances, beginning to ramble incoherently, and I instinctively move between the two. There's a blinding light as the gun connects with the side of my head, the blow driving me to the floor. The encounter is long enough for Boo to come up behind the boy and pull his own firearm, putting the barrel to the boy's back.

"About that advice," says Boo, rather calmly.

* * *

I swear loudly.

"Of all the days to wear those things instead of contacts, mate," says Boo, shaking his head and tisking in a way that reminds me of Mrs. Weasley.

Just watching the movement makes my head hurt. The packet of ice I'm holding is numbing my hand more than my head; the inch long cut from the corner of my eye across my temple caused by my glasses when I was struck is bleeding profusely. There is no hope now for this shirt; it's done for.

"Yeah, no thanks to you," I snap. "If you were more interested in containing the situation than tormenting the perp—"

"It is very you to blame me in this situation," Boo says in a mock-hurt tone. "If you hadn't provoked him, then you wouldn't have gotten decked. Rule number thirty-seven: 'let the guy with the gun point it wherever he likes.'"

"Well I wasn't about to let him shoot the girl, was I? That's what we DO, Finch. Protect the innocent, book the criminals—ring a bell?"

"Who do you think you are, Superman?"

This banter is perfectly normal, and I'd probably enjoy it more if I wasn't in a lot of pain. I can't feel my fingers and the bag of ice slides from my grip and onto the pavement.

I swear again.

"Watch it, here comes Tally," Boo hisses, and I abandon the ice bag on the ground and look in the general direction he's staring.

"Wellwellwell, boys," says a flesh-colored blob coming toward us; it also has a gray blob on its head and a navy blue blob for a body. I hope I look intent and not like I'm about to pass out, which would be a really unfortunate thing to do in front of my boss. "Eventful morning?"

"Indeed, Chief Inspector," says Boo in the suave, "double-oh-seven" voice he reserves for members of the opposite sex. "Just another day outside the office."

Chief Inspector Rebekah Tallis is a superior who enjoys becoming friendly with the lower ranks, but she's still as scary as hell despite her friendliness. She's in her fifties with an impeccably styled gray bob, and I suspect her closet is full of variations on a theme of navy pantsuits. She's like McGonagall, frightening and impressive at the same time, and she dotes on us as much as a chief inspector for the Metropolitan Police can dote on two reckless detective inspectors.

"You look like hell," she says, and I have to assume she's speaking to me.

"Thank you, Inspector," I reply wearily.

"This incident has nothing to do with the Maroni case, does it?" asks Tallis. She's referring to a three-month endeavor to catch a rogue mob man that was closed just last night.

"We have no reason to suspect so, Chief," says Boo.

"Except that the two responsible for Maroni's capture were attacked eight hours after Maroni's arrest," she points out.

"Ma'am, I don't think this has anything to do with Maroni," I say. "The boy was desperate for cash—"

"Desperate enough to hold up the Starbucks across from the Met," Boo offers.

"—and we just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

I can imagine Tallis looking back and forth between us, gauging her gut in the meantime. "If that's what you maintain, I'm satisfied," she says at last. "I'll wait for the report. And, James—"

Harry James has been my name for the last six years, and when I'm addressed by that surname, a twinge of—regret? Confusion? Pride?—jolts through me for a millisecond before it disappears.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Get your face cleaned up by the medics and then go home. Take the day off; you've earned it."

* * *

This is my life now.

I'm Detective Inspector Harry James of the Metropolitan Police of London. I was born in York, raised in Cambridge, and six years ago I joined the Special Investigations unit. Boo's been my partner for half that time. Every morning I wake in my flat in Bloomsbury. I take the Tube to the New Scotland Yard. I investigate murders, specifically the ones that don't make sense. The odd ones, the strange ones, the gross ones. I catch criminals: the ones who run, the ones who want to be caught. I wear a shoulder gun holster that also holds my wand. And every month I meet with Gawain Robards and Kingsley Shacklebolt to review any magical cases I've come across.

I don't see any of my friends anymore; how could I? With an ongoing deep cover assignment, it's a wonder they let me write letters. And I do, every week, one to Ron and Hermione each, one to Teddy, and one to the Weasleys. I talk about small things, day-to-day things. Things that don't give away where I am or what I'm doing. But it's bloody hard, even after six years, to keep things from them. I talk about missing them, how I can't wait to see them at Christmas, how their letters keep me going.

The truth is, even though I miss them, I'm better off where I am. I like it better here, in this parallel universe. Here, magic is a fairytale for children and science doles out answers like coupons. Here, there are no prophecies to fulfill. When a murderer kills, there's no chance he's going to come back from the dead. Here, no one knows my face, and the scar on my forehead is assumed to have been an accident and thought to be coincidentally shaped like a lightning bolt. Here, I am no one.

For the first time in a long time, I am no one but myself.

* * *

"James! Tallis wants you in her office."

This comes from Christopher Eaton, Tallis' secretary, and I nod so he knows I heard. Then I return to my paperwork.

I admit. Paperwork is one thing I itch to complete with magic. The writing mark on my middle finger throbs as I turn the page.

"What's that about?" says Boo, sitting across from me at his desk, doing the same thing. We have these conversations where we work and don't look at each other but manage to understand the other at the same time.

"No idea."

"D'you do anything illegal?"

I look up at him through my still-cracked glasses; they may be a workplace—well, MY workplace—hazard, but contacts still irritate my eyes.

"Right. Nevermind," he says.

A moment passes.

"You'd better get in there before she comes out and drags you in herself."

"I'm not worried."

"JAMES!" This is from Tallis herself, leaning out her office door, looking at me pointedly.

"Right, got to go," I say, and abandon my work.

Tallis sits behind her desk and looks at me fixedly. Her eyes are gray and very bright and also very creepy at times. This is one of those moments when I wonder if she's figured it all out, that my identity and past are fabricated, that I didn't graduate from Cambridge in criminal psychology and go through the police academy. As many nightmares as I've had about her ousting me, I've never imagined her discovering I'm a wizard. That's just unreal.

"Working hard?" she asks.

"Very, ma'am," I say. "I wanted to double check everything in the Maroni report before I submitted it."

"You're nothing if not thorough," she says, and she seems pleased, but with Tally, you never know. "You've been here for six years, Harry. Worked your way up to Special Investigations. And your work has been exemplary."

"Thank you, ma'am." Do I sense a "But…"?

"I've been reviewing your file," she says, opening the said file, and my stomach shrivels. I see my photo upside down looking at her, knowing most of the information on those pages is false. "You know, I used to doubt you. When you were green, you seemed so different from any inspector we'd had before, I thought you'd never last. There are gaps in your records as well, and I admit I've had suspicions."

I swallow convulsively, but when she looks at me, I know she sees my winning poker face.

"But after everything you've done, I've decided that there's nothing you could have done that would change my mind. I've decided to trust you." She threads her fingers together and looks up at me, and I am reminded of a moment nearly seven years ago when Robards accepted my application to this program. Déjà vu's a bitch sometimes.

"I'd like to send you to Boston, Mr. James," she says. "It's a very temporary assignment, but Holland Roesler of the BAU is looking for answers to a string of murders there. I said I'd offer the best I had, and I immediately thought of you. Your experience in serial killings and your knowledge of criminal behavior is perfect for this assignment."

"How long, ma'am?" I ask, feeling flabberghasted.

"If you have no luck in apprehending the killer, three weeks, at the most. But if you can catch him before then…" When she looks up at me, there is a blatant, mischievous challenge there.

A slow grin stretches across my face. "When do I leave?"

* * *

**TBC**


	5. forgetting me, remember me

**Sorry about the wait! Life got in the way, but I'm going to try to post a chapter a week, if not more. My gratitude to the following for ****favoriting****/following the story: ****Old Girl Lost****, ****Sulabh****, ****phantombrick****, ****Venkyinheaven****, ****karunshaji,****Dark Soul 1988****, ****zookster****, and ****moonseeker0609****. You're wonderful!**

**I've decided these flashback chapters need to be little longer so you can gauge Harry & Tate's relationship before the present day story line picks up speed, so I hope the length won't put anyone off from reading.**

**If you read, let me know what you think! I looooove suggestions and questions, so REVIEW! :)**

**Banner art belongs to ansimone**

**Harry Potter (c) JK Rowling/ Warner Bros**

* * *

**V. forgetting me, remember me**

**"**and in a mystery to be

(when time from time shall set us free)

forgetting me,remember me"

—e.e. cummings

_Tate had always known Harry was a wizard; she had even heard his name before. She'd read it in books, heard it whispered reverently. The only time she'd ever heard it spoken like an actual name and not like a title was when he had first told her that day in the schoolyard. Not telling him about the magical world and the possibility of Hogwarts had made her feel no better than the Dursleys, but she knew he would find out soon enough; how could Harry Potter not go to Hogwarts?_

_She watched him enter with all the other first years. As a second year, she took more pity on them than the rest of the students. They were so small and intimidated, no doubt wondering what it was they would have to do to be sorted. He was no smaller than the rest, but still skinny—which would change soon enough, on the Hogwarts diet, she thought with a smile—with the blazing torchlight reflecting off his glasses. She waited with baited breath just like the first years through the Sorting Hat's song and was positively writhing in her seat when the first names were called. _

_When "Potter, Harry!" was shouted, an awed hush fell over the hall, and she smiled. The Boy Who Lived approached the Hat and put it on. Ten seconds passed, then thirty, then a minute…Tate held her breath, wondering, waiting—_

_"GRYFFINDOR!"_

_She tried to reason with the disappointment that shook her even as she applauded. Of course he was Gryffindor; weren't both his parents? And she knew him to be brave already, but he was also kind and smart and determined…he could have been anything. Gryffindor was a friendly house; she was glad he was placed there. _

_That is, until he was seated at the table and was gazing around the hall in wonder and his eyes lit upon the vividness of her hair—and he went a little pale. She didn't grin or wave; that would have seemed callous, but she tried to smile, tried to apologize with her eyes, but his mouth had twisted strangely, and he looked away and didn't glance her way again._

_She sat, puzzled and a little hurt, but she understood why. She hadn't told him about Hogwarts or magic when she'd been learning about it for a whole year. Maybe he was upset she hadn't told him what to expect in the Sorting, or the Hogwarts Express…_

_But she realized as she watched him avoid her entire side of the Great Hall, that it wasn't because she was here._

_It was because of the badge on her chest, and the others sitting at the table with her._

_It was because she was in Slytherin._

* * *

_"You can't avoid me all year!"_

_"Watch me."_

_"All right, maybe you can, but I seriously doubt you can avoid me for the next SIX years we'll be at school together!"_

_They were huddled behind an enormous suit of armor; she'd managed to pull him out of a cluster of first years headed back from Herbology on their way to lunch. She had her arms crossed over her chest in a display of determination, but it was almost to hide the Slytherin crest gleaming on her front._

_Harry sighed. "Why didn't you TELL me, Tate? Why didn't you tell me everything? It would have made things so much easier!"_

_"For who?"_

_"For me! Living with a family who hates me, having abilities I thought were abnormal—it would have solved everything."_

_It was her turn to sigh. "You wouldn't have believed me, Harry—and don't deny it because you know it's true. I was the only thing magical in your life and I didn't have proof to give you of Hogwarts, like a letter or Diagon Alley—I didn't even go there until last year. And I didn't want to not tell you…" She paused, looking harassed. "I was TOLD not to."_

_Harry scowled. "By who?"_

_She rolled her eyes. "Well, they told me not to tell, didn't they, Sherlock? And I DID tell you things would change soon—I didn't know what would happen on your birthday but I knew something would."_

_He seemed to agree with this, but then his vision clouded. His mouth formed the crooked line it always did when he was thinking hard. "Ron said…he said Gryffindors and Slytherins aren't friends. Ever. His family's been in Gryffindor for generations, and they all hate Slytherins and Slytherins all hate Gryffindors."_

_She scowled back. "We were friends before we were Sorted. And since when do you care what's been going on for generations?"_

_Harry drew in air and said quickly, "Ron said that all dark wizards or witches came from Slytherin. That there's not one who went bad who wasn't from there."_

_"Bullshit!" _

_Passing students looked around, and Tate clapped a hand over her mouth. When they'd gone, she looked apologetic. "Harry, I didn't grow up with this stuff, I'm like you—"_

_"You said your father was a wizard," he said pointedly._

_"It's different, he's…a different sort of wizard. That's not the point—the point is, I didn't know which house I'd be in; I didn't know Slytherins are the bastard children of Hogwarts, and I don't know what I did to get sorted there, but it is what it is. And we probably won't see each other from now on often, but I want you to know I'm—I'm not going to turn evil because I'm in Slytherin. A lot of them are terrible, but there are some of us who just ended up there and try to get by."_

_"What do you mean, we won't see each other often?"_

_She shrugged. "For the most part, your classes are made up of students from your own year. Later on we might have specialty classes like Astronomy or Ancient Runes together, but for now it's just first years for you, second years for me."_

_"I'll see you at meals, and…I dunno, weekends and stuff."_

_She smiled wryly. "I don't think it'll be very good for you when you're making friends to have a Slytherin acquaintance."_

_"I don't care what people think!"_

_"You don't now, but you might later. Maybe…I dunno. Maybe we should just stick together during the summer, you know?"_

_He straightened, smiling. "And when we're alone, we won't pretend like we don't know each other. And no pretending like we're enemies or anything."_

_She nodded. "Stand up for each other, but be subtle. And if we need to, we can write each other. Notes here and there can't hurt."_

_He was grinning. "I'm glad you're here, Tate."_

_"I'm glad I am, too. See you around, Potter."_

* * *

_She was invisible next to his bed in the hospital wing, looking down at him as he slept. His bed was surrounded by presents and flowers, most of them untouched as he'd just woken yesterday. She couldn't believe an entire year had passed, couldn't believe what had happened only a few days ago. She couldn't believe the little boy she'd met behind a school in Surrey was the target of the darkest wizard of the age._

_She was going to leave—let him sleep, she thought, when he murmured in his sleep and rolled over, blinking in the darkness. He was silent for a moment, breathing quietly. Then:_

_"Tate?" he whispered._

_She became visible slowly, so not to frighten him. "I'm here. Sorry. I just…wanted to see if you were okay."_

_He nodded into his pillow. "I'm all right."_

_"Good," she said, then pinched his arm savagely._

_"OW!" he shouted, then immediately smothered his mouth in his pillow. They waited for a light to appear or for Madame Pomfrey to awaken, but a minute passed in silence and they resumed their whispering._

_"What the bloody hell was that for?"_

_"You git! What were you _thinking_, trying to find the Philosopher's Stone with only your little friends! You could have been killed! Eaten by that enormous dog!"_

_"Hang on! How'd'you know about Fluffy?"_

_"You think you're the ONLY one who goes through doors marked 'out-of-bounds'? Honestly. And your squirrely little friend with all the hair, What's-Her-Name—"_

_"Hermione."_

_"Yes, her, she said there was Devil's Snare involved, and a life-sized, murderous chess game, and a round of Pick Your Poison, AND Voldemort himself! HARRY! WHAT IS GOING ON IN THAT THICK HEAD OF YOURS?"_

_He was shaking, and for a terrifying split second she thought he was crying, but he pulled his pillow out of his mouth and she could see he was laughing silently. She scowled and scrambled up from beside his bed._

_"I'm sorry!" he breathed between laughs. "I'm sorry. No, really, Tate. Stay. It's just—the whole time I could hear you in my head saying just those things, but with more swearing."_

_She rolled her eyes in the dark, but smiled._

_"Tell me what happened. Everything."_

_He grinned in the dark. "It's a long story," he warned._

_"All right then. Bunch up." She nudged his side and he moved over to make room on the bed. He whispered the story, beginning with his trip to Gringotts with Hagrid, and the odd little parcel there. He told her about stumbling on Fluffy, and sneaking a dragon out of the castle, and watching Quirrell drink unicorn blood. He told her about the Mirror of Erised and how it gave him the Philosopher's Stone._

_When he finished, Tate was silent. _

_"Tate?"_

_"Hm?"_

_"Are you asleep?"_

_"With a story like that? Never."_

_"Harry?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"You could've been killed. Several times over."_

_"I know."_

_"Does that scare you?"_

_"I suppose. But no more than anyone else."_

_"Hm."_

_"Tate?"_

_"Hm?"_

_"Why does he want to kill me? Voldemort, I mean."_

_"I dunno. You must be special, Harry."_

* * *

_Dear Ron Weasley,_

_ We've never met in person and I doubt you even know who I am. I suppose some form of introduction is in order: my name is Tate LaZelle, I live in London, and I attend Hogwarts just like you do—if you're wracking your brain to remember me, don't bother, because I'm a year older than you and in Slytherin._

_ Please DO NOT toss this letter, even though you REALLY want to, I'm sure. It's not a prank or anything like that; I am writing about Harry Potter._

_ And this requires some explanation. Harry and I are friends. He and I met before either of us went to Hogwarts and we had an agreement that we would be friends over the summer where petty house biases weren't detrimental to our social lives. The only thing is, I haven't heard from him or seen him this summer, and it's the end of July._

_So I did some investigating. Harry's owl has not left the house for all the hours I spent watching (which is very unhealthy for an owl, in case you were unaware) so I assume that you haven't received any letters from him. I haven't seen him leave his uncle's house in all that time, either. Also, there is a window on the house on which the Dursleys installed bars. _

_You can understand why I am concerned. I would gladly do something to help the situation myself, only I am, at this moment, preparing to travel to Ireland with my father. In fact he's bellowing at me to hurry and get in the car._

_So, I will be brief: Harry lives at 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. I suspect you will find him behind the barred window. I'm counting on you to do something._

_I hope we can actually meet at some point. Harry seems to really like you._

_Sincerely,_

_Tate LaZelle_

* * *

**_TBC_**


	6. seas catch fire

**Hiya! Thanks to deSloc1 and Manatator for following/favoriting. **

**I think I should give fair warning before you read this one:**

**THERE ARE DEAD BODIES IN THIS CHAPTER.**

**And I describe them. But it's not overly disturbing, or I wouldn't have written it. If it were a movie, it'd be classified as "thematic elements." :) Yeah, this is definitely where the "angst" classification begins.**

**P.S. Reviews would be smashing! ;)**

**Harry Potter © JK Rowling / Warner Bros.**

* * *

**VI. seas catch fire**

"trust your heart

if the seas catch fire

(and live by love

though the stars walk backward)

honour the past

but welcome the future"

—e. e. cummings

I've never been on an airplane.

Especially one soaring over a large body of water.

In the middle of the night.

Bollocks.

I spend the seven-hour flight to Boston reading and watching the screens on the head of the seat in front of me. I drink a lot of coffee, and I read both of the books I brought—both were gifts from Hermione, though why she thought I'd like _The Girl With the Dragon _Tattoo, I'm not sure. I was anxious about trying to read _What the Muggles Don't See: Wonders of the Wizarding World _sitting next to a Muggle, but my rowmates slept most of the time. Sometimes I think Hermione knows exactly where I am and what I'm doing. After all, she's Muggle-born; if anyone knows about the Muggle world, it's her. But I think she doesn't understand why I would choose it over the magical world.

Sometimes I don't either.

I don't sleep anymore. I haven't in years. I've developed this nightly routine that involves very little rest and a lot of coffee. If I'm not working nights, which I frequently am, I read or watch films late into the night, sometimes early morning, at which point I discover I'm hungry, so I fix dinner at one o'clock in the morning. After that I sit in a chair, drinking a glass of white wine, thinking about everything and nothing. Then I lay on the couch for a few hours, dozing, until I realize the couch is bloody uncomfortable, and at about four o'clock I go to bed. I sleep just long enough to keep my body satisfied, but not long enough to dream much.

On bad nights, even after the wine and the films and the food, I have nightmares. Ones where a faceless person reaches to kill me and I slash at him until I'm covered in blood, and then I snap and drop my wand and I strangle him, and then I look up to see Ginny watching, and she tells me that was our son. Or I'm walking toward a casket draped in black, and I look around and everyone I love is there, and it seems more like a party than a funeral. I shout at the top of my lungs, but no one can hear, and then I look into the casket and it's my body.

Or I walk down a village street in Autumn twilight, children in costumes running about. I realize I'm in Godric's Hollow; I go to my parent's house and go inside, eager to see them. I call for my father, but he doesn't come. I go up the stairs, but the bedroom door is closed, locked. I use _Alohomora_ but it doesn't budge. I panic, thinking they're in trouble, so I blast the door off its hinges. My mother screams as I run inside, and I try to speak to tell her it's just me, but she's screaming and begging, and I realize she's standing in front of a crib. I can't stop my wand arm: it rises and I hear my voice shriek the Killing Curse and my mother drops dead. I approach the crib and look at my baby self, who does not cry but stares at me, slowly turning into the shriveled, pathetic piece of Voldemort's soul I saw when Voldemort killed me.

People have stopped asking about the circles under my eyes.

I have to be careful of exhaustion. I'm human, and I will still sleep if I absolutely need it, but the nightmares are worse that way. So in my uncomfortable airplane seat, I shift and stare at the screen, determined to stay awake.

I'd much rather suffer a living hell than go through anything my mind can come up with.

* * *

"Detective Inspector James," says Holland Roesler as I approach. He extends a hand, and I shake it. "Welcome to the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I'm Unit Chief Holland Roelser."

He's a tall, broad man, dark skinned and clearly not the office worker I pictured him to be. The letters "FBI" stamped on the identification card on his suit jacket are somewhat intimidating to me, but then so is "BAU." Especially when my own ID only says "special consultant." What the hell does that even mean?

I landed only a half an hour ago, was picked up by a young agent in a black car and was driven to the FBI headquarters in Boston. I was given the option to freshen up first, but I did enough at the airport, and really, what freshening up is there to do before viewing dead people? I'm sure I appear positively alien to these FBI agents in their stark suits and glinting badges.

"Everyone, allow me to introduce Detective Inspector Harry James of the London Metropolitan Police. I've asked for him to consult on the investigation of the Sorcerer Killings."

My heart skips several beats at the words. Surely he couldn't have said…?

There are introductions to be made. The head team of the BAU is in this conference room. I shake hands with those closest to me, nod at the others. Agents Rory Tennant and Neva Coul are field agents, Doctor Sydney Dorr a special analyst; Doctor Newton Ford is a special consult, like me, along with another from the New York City Police Department, Detective Cassandra Lefevre, and one from Boston PD as well. All the while _sorcerersorcerersorcerer_ is buzzing through my head.

I sit and remind myself I'm a professional—my degree in criminal psychology from Cambridge might be fabricated, but my experience is very real. I've seen a great deal of serial killings in Special Investigations, a lot of them more grisly than I'm more comfortable with. But maybe that's why I am so capable of catching the killers—because I'm so uncomfortable. I had a sadist psychopath hunt me for the better part of my childhood, and I watched a lot of other people die along the way. I guess I'm trying to make it up, too late.

"I want to thank our consultants for joining us," begins Roesler. "We very much need all the help we can get. This case is very troubling, and lack of progress has caused us to turn to you.

"We have, for the last year and a half, been monitoring and investigating a series of murders in New York and Boston. These killings have a disturbing lack of evidence at the crime scene, and any leads we've had have been short and vague. But we have had had time to understand our killer, who has been dubbed 'The Sorcerer.'"

Dr. Dorr, a youngish man whose skin, hair, and eyes are all varying shades of gray-brown, steps forward to continue. "We believe the murderer is male, somewhat young, and fueled by some strong emotion, either hatred or revenge. We think his actions are very personal to him. He has heightened sense of detail, and it frustrates him during his killings. He selects women of a certain age, between twenty-eight and thirty-one, all with very long hair. The victims' similarities end there; the killer alters their appearances rather drastically, dresses them in peculiar clothing, and brands and cuts their skin in markings, only a few of which we've been able to identify as ancient Celtic symbols for betrayal and deceit. We believe," and the man pauses, "that the killer is in search for a woman who has wronged him in the past."

"The timing and pattern of killings suggests that the killer has killed as he searched, the majority of killings occurring in New York City, then a few as he progressed north to Boston. We believe the live woman he is searching for is here, in Boston, and unaware of the danger she is in," continues Agent Coul, a strongly built woman with strawberry-blonde hair and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"There have been eleven killings total, over the last year," says Roesler. "The last four have been in the Boston area. I won't lie; we're frantic to find both the killer and his intended victim before he finishes. Agent Coul and Doctor Dorr have prepared a slideshow, and they'll go into detail about the killings themselves."

I clear my throat as the two agents ready the equipment. "If I may ask, Agent Roesler," I say, suddenly aware of how odd my accent sounds among all these Americans, "why is it Scotland Yard is involved in this case? I'm happy to help, but the relevance escapes me."

Roesler nods. "I spoke to Chief Tallis about providing a consultant from Scotland Yard, because the first two killings happened in London. We believe the intended victim originated there, moved to New York City, then to Utica, and finally here, to Boston. This information is fairly new to us; we don't get many trans-Atlantic serial killings, and the connections went unnoticed for years."

"Where was the first victim found?" I ask, curious against my better judgement.

"A remote area in the south of Scotland. A sheep herd found her," says Dorr. "It was classified as a simple murder, and as the second killing was in London, no connection was made until now."

But I'm not listening anymore.

The first image has appeared on the projection screen.

I feel like I'm dying. My blood is tar in my veins, and I'm suddenly, frighteningly cold, colder than any dementor could make me. My lungs are two cinderblocks in my chest, far too heavy to inflate properly.

_Oh God. This can't be happening_.

The woman, the first victim, is the color of death: a white duller than the snow on which she is sprawled, tinged with the gray indicative of a thing post-mortem. It's a color you become familiar with in morgues; it's like nothing the normal person has seen.

Her fingertips and bare toes are raw, bloody pink; she was probably still somewhat warm when the photo was taken. She is laying at an angle any alive person could not tolerate, her legs crooked and splayed, her arms above her head, like a bizarre snow angel. She is dressed in a long black frock, the skirt hitched up around her raw knees, the long trumpet sleeves splayed like black wings, baring her white arms from the elbow. Her chest is bare and frozen as well, and her long white throat, curved like a Botticelli angel, is severed by a thin, delicate cut.

There are symbols cut into her skin above her breasts, in thick, puckered crimson lines. Three of them, a grisly necklace.

I've seen bodies, too many to count; and I've seen the grotesque artistry of serial killers, and none of these things really bother me anymore.

What's cut into me like a blade is this:

The victim's long uncanny scarlet hair, fanned across the snow in a halo.

And the symbol branded on her left wrist: an open-mouthed skull, entwined by a serpent.

The Dark Mark.

_Tate._

I'm not sure if I say it aloud, if I whisper it or think it or scream it.

The woman is not Tate. Her face is rounder, and there are faintly gold freckles on her cheeks. If her eyes were open, they would be the wrong shape and unlikely Tate's honey brown.

But it _is _Tate. It is meant to look like her. I know it.

I don't trust my voice to sound calm, but I must speak.

"What was the cause of death?"

"Asphyxiation," says Dorr. "It's the same with all the others. This—" He indicates the delicate slit on the woman's throat. "—was caused by a wire or thin strong used to choke her."

"What about these markings?" asks Detective Lefevre.

"We have been able to identify this mark—" Coul points to one on the left side of the victim's chest, just below the collarbone; it was diamond shaped, a vertical eye leaking star-shaped tears. "—as the Celtic symbol used to describe betrayal or sorrow, sometimes hatred. But the others, we have yet to identify."

And they likely wouldn't. The Dark Mark had been purged from Muggle society after Voldemort fell. Even now, when dark wizards attempt to display it, there's a division of Aurors who specialize in wiping memories of the Mark.

The others, I would bet my right hand, are magical. Hermione probably studied them in Ancient Runes at school. These Muggles were in over their heads, and they didn't even know it. Nausea climbs up my throat.

_Tate._

* * *

At this point, I am certain of only three things:

The serial killer is a wizard.

He's hunting Tate and killing others until he can get to her.

And Tate is living somewhere here, in this very city.

* * *

In the loo, I pull out my wand and lock the door. I go to the sink and let the cold water run, watching my pale reflection, before splashing water on my face, my hands shaking.

The panic is back.

My first attack happened only days after the Battle of Hogwarts. I thought I was dying—there was not enough air in the world for me to breathe, my vision was spotty, and all I could feel was pain, and electric anxiety pulsing through me. It was like lightning striking over and over again.

With Ginny, the attacks weren't as bad, not as often. She somehow always knew what to say to drive away the pain. When words weren't enough, she'd hold me until my breathing returned to normal. But after I lost her, the episodes grew and become more frequent. At the treatment center at Scotland Yard, a doctor gave me pills and an inhaler that make the attacks bearable but they don't stop them.

All I can see is the woman's mangled body, with Tate's face. All I can think of is the last time I saw her, looking back at me as I walked away. All I can think is that she might already be dead.

My hands fumble and shake, but my mobile phone is in my hand and the number is dialed before my brain can compute. There's several hours difference between the east coast and England, but she still picks up.

Her voice is so familiar I wonder if I'm imagining it. She's tentative and curious; she doesn't get many calls on the telephone—none, maybe. But when she speaks my heart gives a little twitch, to remind me I'm still alive.

"Hello?"

It takes some forcing, but between my ragged breaths I manage to speak:

"Hermione?"

* * *

**TBC**


	7. joy and grief

**Sorry about the wait! This last one was a difficult one to finish, but it's done!**

**Sheesh! Almost 3000 words! That's longer than I meant for it to be, I hope no one's put off by the length. **

**So, erm, I've taken more than a few liberties with this one. It's pretty hard to paste in a character into a story, but I hope it makes sense. This chapter spans Harry's second through fourth years, Tate's 3****rd****—5****th****. **

**Cheers! **

**~Laz**

**Harry Potter © JK Rowling / Warner Bros.**

* * *

VII. she laughed his joy, she cried his grief

"when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone's any was all to her"

- e.e. cummings

_Tate sighed and closed the book in front of her. Nothing. Again. She placed the book on its proper place on the bookshelf and, just as she heard the sound of footsteps, dissolved into the air and became invisible. _

_She had often wondered, and wondered again as she slipped through the gates guarding the restricted section of the library and passed by Madam Pince, who was scrutinizing the vicinity for any trespassers, what is was that made her able to become invisible, or occasionally defy gravity, or work any of the magic she seemed capable of working—her abilities had expanded as she had grown older: flames were easy to conjure, even easier to control; she could make an object across the room come to her, without using a summoning charm; and all this without a wand. It would concern her, if her powers weren't so useful. _

_She returned to visibility once outside the library. It was the Christmas holidays and the few students who remained were scattered about the school. She passed the Great Hall, warm and full of light and food, passed the corridor where the message from the supposed Heir of Slytherin still glistened in black blood—Filch hadn't yet discovered how to remove it._

_She descended lower and lower into the bowels of the castle; the Slytherin common room was just before the dungeons, under the lake. It made for a long walk._

_Down a corridor, two figures were huddled against the wall, whispering urgently. She couldn't tell who they were—the lighting was poor—until she drew nearer and recognized them as Draco Malfoy's cronies. She had never bothered with their names; she preferred to call them Thing One and Thing Two, though she avoided addressing them and their leader altogether._

_She despised Malfoy. He was everything bad about Slytherin, about wizards. If it wasn't the boy himself, it was his father's influence. His pure-blood mindset and fixation with riches…Tate hated it all. She enjoyed pranking him regularly. Just last week she had been practicing a severing charm and "accidentally" made the boy's ear fall off._

_She intended to pass Malfoy's cronies without a word, but when she had, she felt a tug on her sleeve. In one motion, her wand was out of her pocket and pointed at the crony's unibrow. _

_"Hands off, scum," she snarled, but the boy had his hands up in defense, looking shocked._

_"Tate," he growled in his unpleasant voice, "it's me."_

_She blinked. "I know who you are. Malfoy's Thing One. Don't touch me again. That goes for you, too, Fatty," she said, flicking at the shorter, portlier one._

_"No, Tate, please, it's—" His big eyes glances around quickly, and he spoke in a whisper. "It's me. It's Harry."_

_Tate closed her eyes and counted to five. When she opened them, the boy in front of her was still broad, hairy and ugly. "All right," she said. "That's it. You go tell Malfoy if he wants getting back, he'll have to do it himself, because taking on you two is just too easy."_

_"I'm serious, Tate! Hermione brewed Polyjuice Potion, and me and Ron disguised ourselves as Crabbe and Goyle so we can see if Malfoy is the Heir of Slytherin! I'm not lying, I swear!"_

_She stared him down, but he didn't blink. She hadn't known Thing One to ever look her in the eye; mostly he was looking at her breasts, newly developed. _

_"You're Harry Potter, you say," she said, and the boy nodded. "Okay. Prove it."_

_He swallowed. "Rule number one: magic can't make you special. Rule number two: just because you can do it with magic, doesn't mean you should. Rule number three—"_

_"I say those all the time, not just to Harry," she interjected. "You'll have to do better. What did I say that day at the shopping centre to the woman from Abstinence is Best?"_

_The boy's face went a deep pink. "She asked you what you thought the best contraceptive was," muttered the boy. "And you said 'pants'."_

_Once she stopped laughing, which was a good few minutes later, Harry said with some frustration, "Look, are you going to help us get into the Slytherin common room or not?"_

_She wiped tears from her eyes. "All right, I help you," she said, the remnants of laughter still on her face. "But once you're there, you're on your own. Malfoy and I liked to keep a healthy distance between us."_

_"I didn't think Malfoy could hate a Slytherin," said Ron. "Fellow pureblood and all that."_

_She led them down the corridor and under a tapestry, revealing a flight of stairs spiraling downward. She shrugged. "He has an opinion of what a pureblood wizard should be like. I don't conform to that opinion."_

_"But you're not a blood-traitor," Ron pointed out, accusation tinting his words._

_ "What's a blood traitor?" asked Harry, Goyle's hideous face looking more confused than usual._

_"A pureblood who has been known to consort with Muggles or mudbloods," she explained. "It can't be proved that I've associated with either, so I'm just ignored. But the Weasleys are notorious blood-traitors; everyone knows Arthur Weasley loves Muggles."_

_Ron's—or rather Crabbe's—face had gone an unpleasant shade of purple. "Oh they do, do they? Well, you just tell your Slytherin friends that—" _

_"I didn't say it's a bad thing," Tate interrupted calmly. "For what it's worth, I think the opposite. I was just relaying what's said."_

_They had reached a blank stretch of wall framed by two ghostly gleaming green lanterns. They were so deep in the dungeons, the lake's cold could be felt around them in the air._

_"And this is how you get in," she said, taking out her wand. She pressed the pad of her index finger to the tip, muttering a quick incantation. When she pulled her finger away, a drop of blood glinted on her skin, which she swiped across the stone swiftly. The three of them watched as the dark trail was absorbed by the stone until the surface was clear and the prick on Tate's finger filled in with new flesh. After some grinding, a door appeared before them. _

_She wrenched open the door, revealing the dimly lit common room. She stepped inside, glancing back to see Harry and Ron creeping in hesitantly._

_"Crabbe! Goyle! Where've you two been?" Malfoy's drawling voice made the boys jump, but Tate had seen his pale face in the half-light as soon as she had entered._

_"What are you looking at, LaZelle?" Malfoy barked at her, and she smirked. He sauntered toward her, apparently meant to appear menacing. "I should let you know I told Madam Pomfrey it was you who charmed my ear off, so expect a number of detentions in the near future."_

_Tate shoved passed the pale boy with contempt. "Careful, Draco, or that big mouth of yours will be the next to go."_

_She paused at the staircase to the girls' dormitory, looking back at Malfoy and his two fake cronies making themselves comfortable on the sofas before the fire. Goyle—Harry—caught her eye, begging her to stay, but there was nothing she could do. And if there had been, she wouldn't want to do it. She turned and left him behind._

* * *

_"Tate?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"Where is your dad? I mean, it's one o'clock in the morning. Shouldn't he mind you being out so late?"_

_They were laying on the floor of his bedroom on a make-shift bed of pillows and bedclothes. Harry had been sent to his room early because his Uncle Vernon's horrendous sister was to arrive the next day and the Dursleys had gone to town for dinner. Tate had snuck—without much difficulty—into his room. They'd eaten an odd mix of wizard and Muggle sweets, and used the leftovers to play poker with Tate's worn deck of cards. _

_It _was _late and they still weren't asleep, sprawled in the sweet wrappers and cards in the dark._

_She was silent for a moment, deciding how to answer his question. She didn't want him to pity her. "He's away a lot. Business. Travel. I'm usually home alone these days."_

_It was a lie, told casually, as all the best lies are. She hadn't seen her father in almost five months, hadn't heard from him either. But money appeared in her Gringotts vault and in her Muggle accounts, and maids clueless about their employer arrived to cook and clean. She lied to herself and said she wasn't worried; she had been living by herself for a long time. And her relationship with her father wasn't an enviable one, but it had been a relationship. These days it seemed the number of her relationships was dwindling._

_"What about your mum? You said you get postcards from her. Couldn't you write to her and have her live with you?"_

_She was silent again, the familiar bubble of pain blooming in her chest. It pushed tears into her eyes, and she was thankful for the darkness. She took her time training her voice to be normal._

_"She's not coming back for me."_

_Because she was gone. For good. All those letters, the ones she'd received once a week since she was old enough to read—her mother had written them years ago. She had found the stack of letters yet to be mailed in her father's safe, undated letters on faintly yellowing paper. She'd read them all, only to realize reading the last that the mother she had thought lived a glamorous life out in the world was dead. And had been for a long time._

_Harry sighed. "That's hard. I suppose you're almost in my boat now, except yours doesn't include horrible relatives. But I'm sorry, Tate."_

_She thought of him, her friend; the boy who vanquished Voldemort as a baby, and who had done so again, twice. The boy without the love and guidance of parents or family, who knew they had been taken from him, that they had tried not to leave him. _

_It was different for her: her parents chose to leave._

_"I'm sorry, too."_

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_Happy Birthday! You're fourteen now, but you'll still never catch up to me._

_This present requires some explaining, because I'm sure you're utterly confused as to why I would give you a ruddy necklace for your birthday. Don't worry, I haven't gotten you confused with someone else, and I think you'll enjoy this present._

_My father collects rare magical objects and he hoards them upstairs in this fantastic room covered from floor to ceiling in every knickknack you could imagine, and they all have magical properties. I've been rooting through them since I was a child, and I once came upon a pair of gold chain necklaces. At the time I thought they were pretty and I took to wearing them around, but it wasn't until I put one around my father's neck that I realized they were Links. _

_Links are magical objects that allow a connection of sorts to be formed between the two objects. This particular necklace, and the identical one I wear, had the ability to send thought messages between the wearers._

_So, if you're not too embarrassed to wear a chain, put it on and sort of tug on the chain. It'll start to get warm. While you're still tugging, think what it is you want me to hear. When I reply, the chain will grow warmer, and you just have to touch it to listen to me. It's like telepathic email. Pretty brilliant, right?_

_I'm tired of not talking to you during the school year. This way we can let each other know how things are._

_Enjoy,_

_Tate_

* * *

_"Where is he?"_

_The night was rank with chaos and panic and sorrow, and it burnt in her lungs as she stood before the hospital wing doors. Madam Pomfrey had answered my banging knock with a furious expression._

_"No one is allowed in," she barked, "and you'll disturb—"_

_"I know who's in there, Madam Pomfrey," she said. "And I need to see him. Please. I need to know if he's…if he's all right."_

_She knew he wasn't all right—physically yes, he would heal quickly. But the moment she saw him materialize outside the maze, clutching Diggory's lifeless corpse, she knew he would not fare well._

_When both Harry and Cedric had touched the Triwizard Cup, the winner's anthem had blasted through the air, and the crowd of Hogwarts students had gone wild. But after several minutes and the two had not appeared, there was confusion, and then panic. Tate herself was frightened and sick; she'd helped him in his other tasks—she'd found him gillyweed and trained him to master a summoning charm. Perhaps, if she hadn't, he wouldn't have been in the maze that night. _

_"I cannot allow you in, Miss LaZelle," Madam Pomfrey snapped, "and that is final—"_

_"Tate?"_

_The voice came from inside the infirmary. Tate shot Pomfrey a look of "try to stop me" and pushed past the woman. Inside, the Weasleys and Hermione were huddled around Harry's bedside, along with a large black dog Tate recognized from description as "Snuffles" the dog Harry had insisted was more than he seemed. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape were talking quietly in a corner._

_Tate walked between a woman she guessed was Ron's mother and Hermione. Harry lay in bed in pajamas, horribly pale and worn-out, his eyes raw. The black dog sniffed Tate's hand hesitantly and then seemed pacified. _

_"Hi," said Harry, smiling weakly at her, absently stroking Snuffles' head. "You just missed the Minister of Magic, Tate. It was exciting."_

_She didn't say anything, simply stood there and watched him. She was unaware of the stares of Harry's other visitors. The gold chain she had given him was around his neck; it was how she had known to come to the infirmary. He had sent her not a message with words—and perhaps it had not been intentional—but a feeling of such pain that she had run to him._

_"So. I'll have to tell you what happened, I suppose," he said wearily, but she shook her head and he stopped gratefully. _

_His green eyes locked onto her dark ones. They blinked in silence for a moment, and Harry's mouth opened to speak—_

_"Don't," said Tate, almost sharply. Tears were burning in her eyes. "Don't you dare say it."_

_Harry either smiled or grimaced, she couldn't tell. "I hadn't said anything."_

_"But you were going to say it," she whispered. "I know you too well. You were going to say it was your fault. And I can't bear to hear it."_

_She sat next to him on his bed and they were hugging fiercely. She could feel the tears in him and she knew how embarrassed he was about crying. "I saw him, Tate," he whispered, his words sharp with fear. "I saw Voldemort rise again. I'm so scared."_

_They stayed that way for a while, and then Tate extricated herself, knowing he should rest, and she told him as much. He leaned back against the pillow as Dumbledore began to speak, giving orders about the time ahead. _

_When the black dog transformed into Sirius Black, she was startled but not frightened. It felt right, somehow, and though she didn't know how it was he was innocent, she felt that he was._

_Dumbledore had excused Snape and McGonagall and Black, had ushered the visitors away from Harry. She looked back at him, drinking his sleeping potion, and felt a rush of fear for him._

_"Miss LaZelle," came a soft voice, and she turned to Professor Dumbledore. "If I might have a word with you."_

_In Dumbledore's office, something inside her told her things were about to change. Irrevocably._

_"I was unaware of your relationship with Harry," said Dumbledore frankly. Perhaps he had been worn out of pleasantries for the night,_

_"We became friends before Hogwarts," she answered. "Before Sorting. When we were children."_

_"Ah." Dumbledore's disconcertingly blue eyes fixed on her unblinkingly. "I like to think I'm a rather involved headmaster, as I take an interest in every student who attends this school. But you, Miss LaZelle, I admit I have taken a more deeper interest than usual._

_"Your grades are exemplary, your behavior the same, apart from some slight pranking without your house." She couldn't help but smile. "I will be frank with you, Miss LaZelle. In a few moments, I'm going to ask you to do something. I would not ask this thing of anyone. And I may not have had much contact with you in the past, but I have decided to trust you implicitly. Not because of your grades, no, nor your talents. I trust you because of two reasons._

_"One is because of what I just witnessed between you and Mr. Potter. You have a strong bond, one that is unique to Harry. And I feel because of that bond, you would do anything for him."_

_Tate nodded. "I would. I will."_

_Dumbledore's eyes were swallowing her. "Yes. But the second reason is this: I knew your mother very well. She was as beautiful and as talented as you, and I believe she gave her life so that you, Tatiana, could live to fulfill this task. But know this: the task is highly dangerous and difficult. It also is fraught with many sacrifices, the least among them being your life. I must be certain you understand the risks before I ask you. Do you understand?"_

_There was not a flinch, nor a hesitation. "I understand."_

* * *

**_TBC...:)_**


	8. she isn't standing still

_**Sorry for the major wait, but life does get in the way. Cheers if you're still reading. :)**_

_**Harry Potter © JK Rowling, Warner Bros.**_

* * *

**VIII. she isn't standing still**

"She may be going to Hell, of course, but at least she isn't standing still."

—e. e. cummings

* * *

_Breathe_, Hermione had said. "Just breathe, Harry. It'll all be all right."

So I breathe. And I'm surprised to find that it works. I am calmer. The panic is gone, for now. It's been replaced by a desperate determination, the kind that generates results. Perhaps it's the extra oxygen, or perhaps it was hearing Hermione's voice saying my name. Perhaps it was not lying to her.

I couldn't tell her everything—not where I was or what I was doing, but as usual, I've underestimated Hermione. I think she knows more than I want to think she does. When I told her about the Muggles, she doesn't sound surprised. I don't know why I'm so impressed—it's not like I've ever known Hermione to miss anything.

"You have to tell them, Harry," she said. "You have to tell them you know who the killer is after."

"How do I do that? How can I possibly begin—"

"You have to lie." This was wry and it stung, but I deserve that pain. "Harry. Tate's life is on the line. You have to find her."

Her life is on the line.

"Is there a spell I can do, some way to track her?" I asked. I'm doubting a Summoning Charm will do it.

"There's the Trace, but I doubt it will work," said Hermione.

"Why?"

"The spell tracks magic itself and the person who used it. If Tate hid herself in the Muggle world, I doubt she's used magic in a long time, to avoid being Traced to any location. You should try it, to be thorough, but don't be surprised if there's nothing."

Hermione also consented to research the runes, once I sent pictures to her.

"How—how's Ron?" I had asked against my better judgment.

She sighed. "He's fine, really. But I don't know how I'm going to tell him about this. I won't lie to you, Harry, he's a little bitter."

This I can understand. It's justified, deserved. "Tell him—tell him when this is all over, I'm coming home for good."

And I find the words to be true, not just something to pacify her. I miss home—Ron, Hermione, my friends, my _world_—so badly for a moment it hurts.

My determination is like long-lasting adrenaline pounding through my system. It gives me the courage to ask Agent Roesler to speak privately. He doesn't hesitate, but I can tell he is curious. In his office, I feel a little of the miracle drug in me fading, but not much.

"What is it you want to speak about, James?"

These Americans. No beating around the bush, is there? "I realize you don't know much about me, sir, except for what Commissioner Tallis has told you—and frankly, I'm not confident about that—and I also know that you have even less cause to trust me or—or believe me. I have to let you know I'm serious."

Roesler waits, his interest obviously piqued and the misgivings that come as second-nature in his job glinting in his eyes. I swallow convulsively. Damn.

"I believe I know…the Sorcerer's intended victim."

Roesler blinks. "You mean you have an idea of who she is…?"

"No," I say, "well, yes—sir, I _know _her. Personally. The murders this Sorcerer is staging, the victims he's dressing as her. I know her."

He's frowning now. "Explain."

"Her name is Tatiana LaZelle. We were friends as children. We grew up together."

"In England."

"Yessir."

My heart is racing. He _must _believe me. If he doesn't…I try not to think about it.

"When did she come to America?"

"I don't know, sir. We lost contact twelve years ago."

Roesler sighs and looks at me with his straightforward black eyes. "What makes you think you know this woman?"

"Sir, I don't just _think_. I _know_. Firstly, her hair—you've seen the victims. Tate has very long, very red hair, a colour you would expect to be unnatural, but she was born with it. It's very ostentatious and very recognizable. But—the tattoo, sir, the one with the skull and snake." I open the folder I was issued with photos of the victims and place—or rather slam—it in front of him, pointing to the Dark Mark. "When we were at school, Tate and I, there was a…a secret society, a gang of sorts. They were all about—racial purity. They tattooed their members with that symbol, called it a dark mark. Tate agreed to narc on the gang to—the police. She became a member and she gave the police information about their plans. When the gang was brought down, she disappeared."

I don't think I've ever told such a fantastical tale in my entire life, but Roesler would certainly find the truth more fantastic.

I lean forward, hoping certainty is burning in my eyes and not insanity.

"Sir, if I were at all uncertain, I wouldn't bother you with suspicions. But my gut is telling me—not just the signs—and I know for a _fact_ that the Sorcerer is trying to kill Tatiana LaZelle."

Roesler scrutinizes the photos through his glasses, his face impassive.

"Let me get this straight, James. You fly three thousand miles to consult on a case you've never heard of, then become convinced your childhood friend is the intended victim of an international serial killer?"

Damn! Desperation is driving me mad. My wand burns in my holster. One unforgivable spell and he would be under my control…"Sir, I—"

"Relax, James, you've sold me. A weak lead is better than no lead at all."

Relief is a rush of blood to my head. I feel slightly light-headed and nauseous but I'm grateful.

"You'll have to give us everything you know about this woman, and a search will begin as soon as we can piece together some clues."

"Yessir. Thank you, sir." I stand to leave.

"And James?"

"Yessir?"

He looks at my very seriously and a little poisonous dread creeps back into my stomach. "You said you were friends with this girl. I doubt I need to remind you about being too close to a case, but I think the gap between you two is enough to put that aside." He leans forward slightly. "The Sorcerer seems to kill every six weeks. We're due soon for another body. You'd better find this girl before anything happens."

As if I needed reminding.

* * *

I tell them everything I know about her.

Well, everything conforming to the fabricated tale involving the Muggle-equivalent of the war with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Those details I leave out.

And because these are behavioral profilers, no detail is too small.

Her name is Tatiana LaZelle, nickname: Tate. She was born December second, possibly in Ireland where her father owned an estate. Her mother died in childbirth, and her father was distant, rich. We became friends when we were nine and ten, respectively, and for seven years we both attended a…private experimental school in the south of Scotland that has since closed. She excelled in classes and activities. She was popular and pretty but aloof, and I was possibly her only close friend.

During her sixth year, we grew more and more distant as she began to associate with members of a secretive racial gang. As far as I knew at the time, she had joined them, shown by the tattoo on her wrist. When the gang was taken down the next year, I discovered she had been a spy for the police. Before I could speak to her, she disappeared. I suspected witness protection, I tell them. (But honestly, I suspect Tate. If anyone could disappear like vapour, it's her.)

She can defend herself, I tell them. She did boxing and kickboxing and all sorts of self-defense—I don't mention a rare and uncanny ability to manipulate anything and anyone with a wand having anything to do with it.

Her physical description is as follows: tall, 1.7 meters, between 50-55 kilograms (I let them deal with the conversions). Dark brown/black eyes. Caucasian, pale skin. Vivid red hair extending to her waist, perhaps longer.

She likes books, all sorts, with a soft spot for Shakespeare and a hatred for romance novels and Jane Austen. She can sing very well, and paint as well. She likes attractive cars and listening to music and watching films. Her clothes are pragmatic and comfortable but fashionable. She's sarcastic and funny and cool—always so nonchalant, but she's also very sensitive, sometimes I suspected depression. She drinks raspberry tea every day and sleeps on her side with her hands balled into fists like she's afraid.

When I'm finished, I realize that it's been twelve years, and maybe I don't know her at all. I mean, look at how I have changed.

When I tell this to Roesler, he doesn't seem concerned. "Humans are creatures of habit. It's likely she's continued a lot of what you've told us, even if some has changed. Now it's just a matter of tracking down anything that will give us a name and an address."

I just hope it's enough.

* * *

I let the technicians begin sweeping records for anything matching the information I've given. I feel useless and tense watching them, ten or so and all of them under twenty-five, fixated on computer screens, fingers typing madly, faces and records whizzing across the screens like rubbish in a wind storm.

So I find my way to the roof. I Dissillusion myself for the sake of the cameras and Obliviate anything that looks suspiciously in my direction, and about five hundred flights of stairs later I'm overlooking downtown Boston. I like the look of this city, clean and old and all red brick. A band of storm clouds are brewing out over the ocean.

The Trace is terminated on every witch or wizard as soon as they become of age, but it can still be put on, very temporarily, as long as the target isn't blocked by wards and holds a general position.

But there's nothing. I curse and nearly throw my wand off the side of the building. If the Trace had yielded anything, it would have given me a mental image, but all I can see is Boston.

I'm getting more and more desperate. Desperation can be useful, but it can also be damaging.

I spend the next twelve hours staring at pictures of murdered women. I become more and more convinced that Tate is the intended victim—the women are dressed as she was the night of the Battle of Hogwarts, and when I saw her last she had had a thin cut on her throat. But I can't think of who could be behind the killings.

A wizard. That's certain. But what wizard would bother killing Muggle women? The wizard was probably at Hogwarts during the battle. But that's any number of people. And he (I assume it's a man) obviously harbors a great deal of hate towards Tate—but does that make him a Death Eater or someone else, someone who didn't know she was a spy, who thought she was truly a follower of Voldemort?

And _where the bloody hell is she?!_

"There is no one in the Boston area, nor the state of Massachusetts named Tate or Tatiana LaZelle," Dr. Dorr tells me. "Photos of every red-haired female between the ages of twenty-seven and thirty-two have been viewed, none of them match the profile you gave us. And none of them reportedly have an English accent. The fact of the matter is," Dorr sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, "physical traits are too easily changed, especially for people who have such recognizable characteristics who are running. Her eyes may be blue, her hair blonde, and accents can be learned easily. We have to know more."

My face is in my hands. Twelve hours, and nothing so far. I haven't slept in a day and a half and Tate could soon be dead, or at least another woman. I feel Dorr's hand on my shoulder.

"Come on; let's get some fresh air," he says. "It'll restart your system."


	9. sleep wake hope

_**Slow going, but getting there all the same. :) Slight language warning.**_

**Harry Potter (c) JK Rowling/ Warner Bros**

* * *

**IX. sleep wake hope**

"someones married their everyone's

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hope and then)they

said their nevers they slept their dream"

- e. e. cummings

* * *

_She hates Christmas; she always has._

_There's something hugely wrong with pretending like everything is beautiful and hopeful when it's perpetually dark and frigid and hopeless outside. Maybe it comes from always being alone; She had only a few memories of her father home for Christmas, though she never lacked for presents when he was alive. He always bought her the most expensive gifts he could find on his exotic travels, as though it could make up for a childhood of loneliness._

_And something was wrong with Harry—she could feel it. A few days before the break, he disappeared, along with all the Weasly kids; Umbridge was livid for days, taking it out on the first and second years—Tate was ready to curse the toady bitch herself if she saw one more eleven-year-old come out of her office with a bleeding hand._

_She wanted to tug on her chain and think, _Where the hell are you, you thoughtless prick? Can't you see I'm worried?_ She wanted to write him a hundred letters, she wanted to play wizard chess with him and she'd even let him win. She wanted to sit on his bed as they listened to her favorite album by Sigur Ros and they'd drift off, waking up to tug the blankets away from the other. She wanted to look at him and not be ashamed to be who she was, she wanted him not to be ashamed of her._

_She wanted to tell him she loved him._

_For him to say it back. And mean it._

_Maybe Dumbledore saw it before she did. Maybe that's why he pulled her into his office a month before._

"_If this…scheme is to be truly successful," he'd said, "you know what you must do." Damn Dumbledore and his sad blue eyes that seem to understand everything going on in her head. "You must begin to sever your attachment to Harry. It will only work if he and the rest of the Order whole-heartedly believe you to be a traitor. He must have no doubt."_

_It's easier said. She thought she could do it, Dumbledore's crazy scheme, until Harry vanished and she realized breaking off their friendship would kill her a little bit and that it might be the same for him._

_Could she inflict such pain?_

_She was still thinking of it, chewing at her nails, worrying them to ragged stumps as she sat on her bed in her father's flat in London when her chain burnt hot around her neck. She clutched at it before she could stop herself._

Tate. Help.

_Panic surged through her. _Harry? Are you all right? Are you hurt?

Not hurt. I'm fine. But I need…help.

Specifics, Harry. What?

Ron's dad almost died. I had a dream that he was bitten by a snake, and when I woke up I found out it was real. I'm with the Weasleys now, in London. Tate, I think I attacked him. _He was distraught, terrified, disgusted with himself._

_She was baffled. _Don't try to explain now. I'm in London, too. Can you meet me?

_He was hesitant. _I'm…not in a place I can leave.

_He had no idea she knew about the Order, or 12 Grimauld Place, and was therefore unable to give her exact details, but she went along._

You have to come to me, Harry. You have to talk to me.

I have people protecting me. I'll never get far.

_She smiled to herself. _Only if you use magic. You know Muggle London better than they do. Where's the closest Tube station?

Hammersmith.

Use your cloak. I'll meet you at Russell Square.

_And as she dressed, throwing on a makeshift outfit and running out the door, she listened to him as she crept out Grimauld place in his cloak and ran through the December rain to the Tube. He jumped onto the nearest train, got off at the next station, took another a few stops down the line, and then finally took the Piccadilly line to Russell Square. She waited for him at the café across the street in the shopping centre._

_When she saw him walking to her, nearly wet through in just a jumper and jeans, she felt warmed through as though it was summer. She hoped he thought the color on her cheeks was from the cold._

"_Tell me everything," she said before he even sat down. She had ordered him hot chocolate and a hot meat pie, and he eat as he spoke, one of his cold hands between two of Tate's warm ones._

"_I'm going mad," he said with certainty. "I'm becoming possessed by him. And everyone knows it—Ron and the others, they won't even look at me. And Moody and Lupin think I'm dangerous, so it's bad. And Dumbledore—" He gritted his teeth in anger._

"_Are you going to let me talk now?" she said in her matter-of-fact voice, and he smiled._

"_I know you're worried, and I bet you haven't slept since it happened, or eaten, looks like. I bet you shut yourself up in a room because you were scared of hurting others and hurt that they think badly of you—which I doubt, by the way—and you think you're going to go off on someone at night."_

_He grimaced. "Tate—"_

"_Oi, let me finish. Harry, you couldn't have been the snake. You _weren't_ the snake. But you saw what it did, you were inside its mind. Think of it like the chains." She pulled hers out from under her shirt. "Someone—and I think we both know who—has a link into your head, a one-way link. And if it weren't for that link, Ron wouldn't have a dad right now."_

_He seemed appeased and had started to look at her as though just seeing her. "How are you? Good Christmas?"_

"_I hate Christmas," she said vehemently. "You know that."_

_He nodded. "Maybe you should get a sleeping potion."_

_She blinked. "What?"_

_He sighed. "I know you're not sleeping because you've got gray under your eyes and your mouth is turned down and your hair isn't washed and you're wearing your pyjama shirt, Tate. So I know something's up and you're losing sleep."_

_She was in love with him._

_No one had ever known her well enough to know when she wasn't sleeping just by looking at what she wore. She had never had such a history with someone, and to her history was everything. And Harry was her history. _

_She loved him._

"_I'll be okay," she said vaguely._

_He nodded. "You're always okay."_

_She was before. She would never be again._

* * *

_It was later, when she wept on the floor of her bathroom, curled into a naked ball with the damp parchment of Dumbledore's letter leaving smudges of ink on her skin, that she knew she had to do it. That she would. Because she loved him, not despite it. _

_When she could breathe again, She took the chain from around her neck and folded it in an envelope, placing it in her trunk. Then, quietly and without fuss, she sealed away her heart._

* * *

_It was done._

_It was plastered on the papers, whispered across the breakfast tables, Harry's latest adventure. The attack on the ministry and the heroics of Harry Potter and his friends had become the talk of the wizarding world. And now that Voldemort was back—now that they knew he was back—it was like a cosmic sign: it's time._

_She knew when the chain burned; she saw the smoke emanating from her trunk and knew it was him. But she didn't touch it, not even to stop it from burning through the envelope and a pair of socks. She knew what was happening—he needed her, he was going to go into Voldemort's trap and wanted her there, but she'd decided, and now it was time to end it all._

_Sirius Black was dead. She read it in the papers. But she read it also on his face when he met her in the library. She clamped her face closed with indifference. She had hoped all these months of silence between them—no letters, no greetings, not a word exchanged—would have lessened their bond, but she could tell it had done nothing to him._

"_You weren't there," he said in a voice ravaged with grief and anger. "I needed you—and you weren't there. I called you, and you didn't come. What are you going to say, Tate? Are you going to apologize? Are you going to say anything?"_

_She swallowed, blinked. "I'm sorry for your loss."_

_In a vicious swing he threw a pile of books to the floor with a crash. "Damn my loss! Are you done with me, Tate? Has six years been enough? Are you through with me? Because I can tell you, I am this close to being through with you."_

_She sighed, trying to look weary. "Harry, I think it's time we realized we're too different. I mean, it worked when we were kids, but it's too much to try to be friends here when you're a Gryffindor and I'm a Slytherin. I thought it wouldn't matter, but it does. I'm sorry. I think it would be easier for us both—"_

"_Fuck you." His eyes were burning with anger, his face twisted. She wanted to cry, to fall to the ground, to confess everything—but in the future, where would he be? She would be mourning his death. She swallowed the hate and stayed where she was. "It won't be easy. But thanks for making it a little easier. I guess you do belong in Slytherin."_

_And he left._

_She drifted to her knees, slowly picking up the fallen books. It was done._

_He hated her. And what a bitter relief it was to be hated. Now she was free to save him._


End file.
